


sacred simplicity

by guttersvoice



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, brief emeto warn for ch4, endgame spoilers, self indulgent character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersvoice/pseuds/guttersvoice
Summary: Akechi lies back down. It’s none of his business. They’re going to execute an inmate, or something, he gathers, as he drifts off.And then the inmate speaks, and it’s like getting shot.He just got shot, so he knows.





	1. no place

**Author's Note:**

> this is so self-indulgent i just wanted to write him surviving and that being ok

After he dies, he wakes up in a cell. At first, he’s a little disappointed. Not even allowed to die in a meaningful, impactful way - no, the man he’d met on that blue-curtained stage in his dream had use for him still, it seems, so he has to live. And imprisoned! His instincts almost ask ‘for what?’, but he catches himself before he can.

He knows what.

The wall his back is pressed up against is soft, and when he cranes his neck to look, it’s the same velvet as those stage curtains. That had been a dream, but also a real place, so it isn’t hard to deduce that it can take different forms, and that this is the same place.

He’s wearing his sweatervest. Not an inmate’s uniform, not the hero’s outfit or the trickster’s armour. Just an ordinary boy’s clothes. So he’s powerless here, then? Not that it matters. He’s done. He’s tired. All that work, and the answer was 'just be yourself’ all along.

He knows who Akechi Goro is.

A bright television smile with blood on his hands. But he chose the name when he chose the mask of a detective, and it’s never quite fit.

Another lie to add to the length of his nose: it fit perfectly when one person called it. He dares to push the thought: it was comfortable enough from a few others.

Still, he thinks he liked 'Crow’ better. It had been fun, and it’s hard to untangle what was the sickly sweet glee of deception from the warmth of believing that people needed and wanted him around.

He had a name before Akechi Goro, of course, but that one had never been his, really. Choosing a ‘real’ name for himself seems unnecessarily difficult, though. Not that he needs a name any more, he supposes, looking around at the cell from the bed he’s laid out on - it’s easy to assume this is now his permanent residence. A prisoner doesn’t need an identity, just a list of crimes. And his list is so very long.

When he sits up, the bed fits exactly to his height. His feet - socked and shoe’d - are perfectly flat on the ground. A bespoke cage just for him, then. Lovely. At least he’ll be comfortable.

Beyond the bars caging him is a large, circular room, but there’s something between his cell door and the rest of the room, blocking his view. It’s a guillotine. He’s never seen one outside of books and screens before, but it’s not hard to tell.

He’s so tired.

There are voices - one high and melodic, tinny, singing over speakers; one instantly recognisable as the man who awoke him to Loki’s power - no. No: his own power. Two voices, mirrors of one another, that can only belong to children.

Akechi lies back down. It’s none of his business. They’re going to execute an inmate, or something, he gathers, as he drifts off.

And then the inmate speaks, and it’s like getting shot.

He just got shot, so he knows.

Now he can’t move, or speak, only listen as things unfold. Not that Akira needs him for this - even the shh-thunk of the guillotine blades doesn’t audibly faze him, as far as he can tell from this angle, unable to see the other boy.

And Akira goes to find his friends.

And Akira comes back with all of his friends.

And maybe at this point Akechi could get up and call out and shake at his bars, but - not one of them even mentions him. Of course, they wouldn’t think to search for a dead boy, he reminds himself. Of course, he needs to tell them that he’s alive. That he’s right here.

But not one of them mention him, and his mind swims with all of the ways he’s hurt each of them personally, and the moment passes before he can bring his body to move or his throat to unstick: besides, there are more important things to focus on, so he can’t shout after them and distract them. He can’t even push himself to feel a sting of envy or resentment at the idea that he might not be worthy of the title of a trickster.

So he pulls his knees to his chest, instead, and leans against the velvet-quilted wall, and silently wishes them the best as their footsteps recede.

The soft snores of the long-nosed man start up again, and, after some time, the attendant, an ancient being in the shape of a small girl, approaches the bars of his cell. He tips his head to look at her, even the effort to stand or approach beyond his reach at this point.

“They’re doing well, out there,” she tells him. He’d expected her to ask why he hadn’t said anything, why he was still in his cell; to instruct him to leave immediately. That she hasn’t done anything he anticipated shifts his opinion of her, just a little. That they’re doing fine without his presence comes as a palpable relief laced through with bitterness. He’s useless, after all. “It is difficult for them, but this time they face the Grail prepared.”

“The Grail,” he scoffs. The corners of her eyes crinkle a little in amusement.

“I won’t say its name here,” she clarifies, and he shrugs, letting his head drop back against the wall and his eyes drift closed again.

He doesn’t know how much time passes. It’s hard to tell, here: eventually, the room shakes, and  the pressure in the air builds so his ears pop several times and his teeth ache and his head throbs the way it only throbbed the moment before he induced that rampage in his own heart. And there’s something behind him, even though his back’s to the wall, and there’s hands on his shoulders and hands around his neck and hands pushing his head down and laughter ringing in his ears.

It’s a good job this place is, for the most part, metaphysical, or he might have thrown up. Instead, he curls up into a ball and shakes and grinds his teeth -

    -   and definitely doesn’t call out for his father    -  
              -   and definitely doesn’t call out for Akira     -

and pulls at his hair and rakes jagged, bitten nails against the tender flesh of his throat and then it passes.

More than that - another weight lifts away from him. An itch in the back of his skull that pinned him in place even as he'd struggled and disrupted, a vague sense of purpose he'd never noticed. It's gone now, and by its absence he can finally notice it. He knows, without asking, the name of the thing that granted him power to use him as a pawn - and he knows it has been defeated - and if he'd entertained any thoughts of leaving this place, as dampened by its influence as they would have been, they fade with this awareness that it’s over - this relief, or a feeling like relief - and he can finally quiet his mind enough to sleep.

There is no sleep in the Velvet Room, it turns out, at least not for humans who have no ‘real’ body to return to. But he can reach a semi-conscious state of dozing, and it's more restful than any of the sleep he's managed for years now.

Lavenza, the childlike attendant, talks to him, sometimes. Never about specific people, never the information he wants, but updates on the state of the world outside, the mood Shibuya is in, the amount of time that has passed. Sometimes she’s two girls, instead, but some part of him understands that they are the same. Akechi doesn't get hungry here, but at New Year's Igor makes an appearance and the three of them share soba through the bars. It’s not home, and it’s not a family - something about seeing the two residents of this room eat is incredibly unnerving to him, in fact - but it’s a tradition he’s only had the opportunity to participate in with others a few times, and if he suspects they’re just indulging him or attempting to stave off his childhood loneliness, he keeps his mouth shut.

They expand their conversation topics. Igor is usually absent, but Lavenza slides her book through the bars of Akechi’s cell and they turn the pages together as she talks him through each of the Arcana; each Persona that Akira claimed or, with their help, fused together; each interpersonal relationship that opened more and more options to him.

When she tells him which of those cards matches up to him, he shakes for a full minute and closes the book. Refuses to look at it for a full three days. Eventually caves, out of curiosity or boredom. She doesn’t question his actions.

While Caroline will kick at his bars and complain noisily, and Justine will tilt her head and stare sadly at him, Lavenza doesn’t question anything of Akechi - even his choice to stay within this prison, when he can see the way out beyond the bars. The door is still open, and he can almost judge the passing of time based on the distant, fuzzy light levels beyond. He wonders if it’s because she doesn’t care, or if it’s because she’s as lonely as he was at her age. Or what he perceives to be her age. He can never tell what she’s thinking, only able to recognise the occasional emotion reflected in her moon-wide yellow eyes. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

When they reach the end of the book - or, he supposes, the end of Akira’s contributions to the book. He suspects there is far more to it than that, and that there have been many other guests here, but doesn’t care to ask -

When they reach the end of the book, their topic of conversation shifts again. Lavenza tells him about her family. Her sisters - one who seems stern, but is soft and bright and silly at her core, the other absent on a long journey to search for something, or someone - her brother, a naive showoff beyond his polite appearance; the two older members who provide the constant music that Akechi barely even notices any more, after such prolonged exposure.

She speaks of them warmly. He’s a little jealous, but it doesn’t claw hot and sticky into his chest, anymore.

Perhaps his prison stay is aiding him in something like rehabilitation.

When he says this, only half joking, Igor wheezes a laugh, and Lavenza giggles so hard she falls apart into twins.

They don’t leave him hanging in confusion: they explain as soon as they can, and that, more than anything, makes him feel more welcome among them than anything else.

Lavenza teaches him to spread the cards and read them, and he knows what she is doing. Why she is teaching him.

She doesn’t ask, though, and Igor doesn’t make him any offers of any sort. No ambiguous contracts, no promises exchanged. Perhaps, he thinks, they simply expect him to go along with it. They’re wrong, if they think that, but even his resolve to refuse any such offers does nothing to the bars of his cell. He has no reason to rebel just yet; no motivation to leave.

And, eventually, an esteemed guest pays one last visit.

Akechi says nothing. Sits just out of sight and listens and doesn’t dare peek at the boy.

Lavenza’s words wind around the situation, but her meaning is clear enough, after so long with few other options for conversation: he gave himself up, and is living in juvenile hall. Turned himself in to prevent any of the others from being taken down in his place. Selfless and uncompromisingly kind as ever. There’s a lump in Akechi’s throat as Lavenza hands over The World, and tells Akira he is no longer alone.

Akechi knew that - that Kurusu had been as alone as him, before awakening - but it doesn’t make him feel less sick at himself. And feeling sick at himself doesn’t smother the sharp pang of envy.

The heart is a complicated thing. If only his could have been so easily stolen.

A sly, treacherous part of his mind suggests that he already has. He squashes it down.

Akechi has seen the Master and Attendant vanish from this place plenty of times by now. Apparently, Akira hasn’t, though, judging by the tiny noise he makes. It’s sweet, and gives him the tiniest sense of superiority just from knowing a little more about this place.

This is his last visit, Akechi realises suddenly, and he has seconds to speak up before Akira wakes up and never comes back here.

He almost chokes, but manages to force a few words out.

“So after all that, you’re locked up anyway? For what?”

A few seconds pass in silence, and he allows himself to imagine the mix of shock and horror and - if he really indulges - relief that might make up the other boy’s expression.

“I broke my probation,” comes the reply, straightforward as ever. The steady blue light is broken a little by a dark shape casting a soft shadow across him, and it’s no surprise when he looks up from his seat on the floor and sees Akira.

Akira: not Joker, not a Phantom Thief but a barefoot boy in comfortable looking pyjamas. He looks strange without his glasses. The squint makes him look almost as if he’s glaring down at him, but Akechi knows better than to assume that.

He wants to say something clever, but his chest is tight and his mouth is dry and all the clever thoughts have left him. He had thought he wouldn’t ever see this face again - certainly not without it twisted in anger and betrayal. There isn’t even a shred of disappointment in his expression, though, as Akechi pushes himself to his feet. Leans against the bars. Like this is a casual, everyday meeting, and they hadn’t both seen each other shot too-recently, and they hadn’t both been pawns in a game between gods. Like one hadn’t betrayed the other in the cruelest possible ways, and joked about it on public television, after.

Pretending everything is normal is easy enough, but he can’t quite make the smile seem as genuine as he could before. There’s something tired and heavy slowing the corners of his mouth.

Akira’s hand comes up silently and curls around the bar and around Akechi’s hand. Akechi, embarrassingly enough, trembles a little.

“Have-” he tenses a little as the other boy addresses him. There's something hesitant and quiet there, beyond the usual, though, which is a surprise, which he should have anticipated anyway. “Have you been waiting long?”

It shouldn’t be funny, but Akechi finds himself laughing a little; an ugly bitten-back noise.

“Shouldn’t you be more concerned about--” There’s a list of things, really - the fact that he’s here, alive, the possibility that he might try to kill Akira, again, the madness that he at least knows still seeps through the dark places at the back of his mind, the potential for another dirty trick on that god’s behalf - but as he pauses to decide which to start with, Akira fixes him under that steady gaze, the one that promises no hatred or mistrust, and he falls silent again.

“Probably,” Akira acquiesces eventually. “But I'm out here and you're in there and--” The corner of his mouth twitches in that way that means he's remembered a joke but doesn't think it's the right time to tell it, and Goro is forcibly reminded of just how well they know one another. Their bond had been one of true understanding, in the end. He might not have had Lavenza’s small, sweet voice whispering in his ear reminders of the importance of building relationships, but that didn't mean he hadn't felt the links between them slide into place just as Akira had. They know one another, which means Akira knows him, which means Akira trusts him despite that.

_Nice deduction, Tantei-ouji!_

His own smile must have twitched a little, because Akira squeezes his hand, gentle and reassuring.

He can't hide the miserable concern in his eyes from Goro, though. His eyes aren't red-ringed from crying, but Goro wouldn’t be able to tell under the blue light anyway. Somehow he knows, though, just by looking, that this boy - even if no one else, this boy at least cried for him.

Akira's genuinely worried about the well-being of the boy who was so giddy over killing him in cold blood, and it's impossible not to feel deep, shuddering relief in response. Akira has every right to hate him: if not for himself, then for the things Goro did that ruined and hurt and tore down his family of thieves. But he’s looking at Goro with something so soft, and he knows. Whether he deserves it or not, at least as far as Akira is concerned, Goro is just as much a part of that family as the others. As much as the ones whose family members he himself had directly killed, as much as anyone whose life he'd had hands in trying to ruin.

He can’t understand that capacity for forgiveness. But he can recognise and acknowledge it as much as the stinging of his own tear ducts.

“How did you survive?” This question is easier. The relief laced through his tone is not, but Goro pushes through the sudden tightness of his throat.

“We forged the final link in our bonds,” he explains. His voice sounds thick and distant, and he's grateful suddenly that Akira isn't the type to comment on the emotional reactions of others unless absolutely vital. Another hand reaches through the bars, hooks two fingers around two of Goro’s. They're stood so close now. Only the bars really separate them. Both of them are shaking. Only a little.

“So I was able to complete the Justice Arcana,” Goro continues, a little quieter, assuming Akira’s prior visits to the Velvet Room and experiences with his confidants will let him understand what he means by this. Goro himself wouldn't have been able to, before. Even a few weeks ago it would have sounded for the most part like nonsense. Maybe it's a blessing he stayed imprisoned for as long as he has. He understands so much more, now; has learned so much about himself and about both worlds.

“Right in that moment, I was able to call forth Hyperion. The bullet hit my shoulder-” There’s no wound there now, of course, but Akira glances down anyway, as if he expects to see blood, or a hole, or something. “And I was left completely drained. Passed right out, and woke up here around the time you helped Lavenza find herself.”

He's not sure if the blink he startles out of Akira with that statement is about the timing of his survival, or the familiarity with which he refers to the Velvet Room’s attendant. Either way, he's a little pleased with it. Nice to know he can surprise the other boy too sometimes.

“I’m not sure how I ended up here instead of dead, but I assume I still counted as a valuable pawn to someone at that point.”

He tries to keep his tone light, but somehow that makes the bitterness he feels even more obvious, at least to his own ears. It’s the truth, though, and it's a fair explanation of the situation, he thinks. But Akira looks so sad, so near to pitying, and he can’t stand that - forces out a laugh through his teeth. He wants to pull away so the sticky-bright corroding fire he has instead of blood doesn't burn through and rot Akira’s hands, but being so close; being touched skin-to-skin unflinching, even though he knows - Akechi can't move.

“Evidently I remained useless, though,” he pushes forward, finding that filthy level of perverse glee once again in the way his self-deprecation makes Akira’s pretty face contort. His stomach roils in a way it hasn't since he came here. “Congratulations on your victory. You will pass that on to the others when you get out, won't you?”

This visibly throws Akira, more than Goro’s familiarity with the inhabitants and workings of the Velvet Room had. The dismay is written over instantly, though, with the steel-bright quiet determination he's seen on that face so many times now.

“Tell them yourself,” he insists, and Goro can only smile disparagingly, gaze flicking to the bars keeping him in place before returning to meet Akira’s. There’s something else besides determination there, he realises now. Something a little like wanting. He doesn't dare call it desperation, even in his head, even as Akira pushes the point further. “Don't you want--”

“I don’t want anything,” Goro cuts him off before he can hear the rest. Knowing what Akira expects of him might make him want it. He doesn’t deserve to want any more than he already has. “There was one thing I wanted, but you lot got in there before me, so I missed out on seeing his face. I suppose I ought to thank you, though.”

“No.” Akira’s voice is quiet, eyes roaming Goro’s face as if searching for something. His hands grip a little tighter around the bars, around Goro’s hands. “A place to belong.”

And that’s it, really.

Goro feels something in his chest crumple a little.

He tugs his hands free, and steps away to sit on the bed, and looks in Akira’s direction, if not at the boy himself. Past him, into the blue. There’s nothing there for him, he’s sure.

He can feel Akira’s eyes on him. His hands must be cold, clinging to the bars like that. His feet, too, bare on the stone floor.

Not that it’s any of Akechi’s business.

Akira leans his head against the bars, curls pressed against his forehead, as if he’s trying to get as close as possible, and Goro is struck by the urge to push them aside, out of that too-pretty face - in the same moment, Akira calls his name.

“Goro-” - and his voice is so filled with - something that sounds almost wrong connected to his name. He’d never thought he’d hear anyone say it like that, and know for sure that they meant him, and that they knew him. He can’t move, now, or he’ll do or say something he can never take back, but he can meet the other boy’s eyes, and recognise the desperation there, and he knows his own expression mirrors it.

Akira’s next words are barely a croak, and - god, he’s made him cry. Even if there aren’t any tears now, Goro’s made him cry, at least once, likely more than that, and he full body shakes as Akira speaks.

“I’ll come back for you,” he promises, and Goro chokes out a laugh that might sound more like a sob, because how does Akira intend to do that, anyway - and Akira is gone. Awake somewhere in a different prison.

And the door to Goro’s cell is open, and he’s wearing a mask again.

It’s different from the last two. Somewhere between them, and maybe, he thinks, a little better. A little more like what he could be -

He cuts himself off there. Akechi Goro can’t be any more than he already is.

But, that little thought process at the back of his mind points out, Akira doesn’t think that.

Crow wraps himself in his feathered cloak, and pushes his beak up onto his forehead, and curls up in Igor’s seat, and waits.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but it’s not as long as a prison sentence should be, at least judging by how long he’d spent there already. He’s woken by Lavenza a few hours early, sat on the table and kicking her little feet into his knee. She says nothing; just smiles at him, and clambers into his lap for a hug.

Goro strokes her hair and wonders which of them it’s been longer for. He’s willing to wager that Akira held Lavenza close at least once, more recently than he did Goro. It’s only as she lets go and vanishes again that he realises that it wasn’t out of a generalised need for physical affection, but because she had never had the chance to hug him, specifically, in the months he spent in the Velvet Room, but he’s alone again before he can say anything. Probably she’s had to say goodbye to a great many guests, in her time.

As he hears Akira approach, his chest tightens with every footstep. Over-analysing, perhaps, to still wonder - is he wanted? is he allowed? will he be able to leave, even with the doors open and a hand outstretched for him? - but he can’t shut his brain off, until the leader of the Phantom Thieves, an ordinary schoolboy, his friend, his soundly defeated rival who soundly defeated him, is in sight, and then all thoughts drop out in place of silence.

He looks well, in his own clothes, with his glasses perched safely on his nose and his bag on his shoulder. A little thin, perhaps. When Akechi stands up, all his feathers fall away and he’s just a boy in a soft woolen sweatervest and comfortable shoes again, and Akira is smiling at him.

“You looked like a prince,” he says, and the cat pokes its head out of the bag.

“Oh, what? Did I miss something?” Morgana is still a cat, even in here, which strikes Akechi as more than a little odd, considering what he’d heard - both by listening in and by asking Lavenza. He jumps to the floor and winds around Akechi’s ankles, and he chooses not to question it. “You look like the same pretty-boy to me, Crow. If a bit less polished.”

There isn’t a trace of anger in his voice, which is more of a surprise than his shape. Akechi chooses not to question that, either, as much as he feels like he ought to.

There’s something extraordinarily surreal - more than all the other weirdness - about two boys standing in this place in plain clothes, with a cat. He doesn’t know what to say.

Akira is watching him patiently, rocking on the balls of his feet a little, like he wants to move soon. Goro can’t tell if it’s towards him or away, and hesitates. Bends to scratch behind Morgana’s ears, which earns him a purr and a “yeah, that’s the stuff!”, and swallows down the lump in his throat.

“What does the public know about me?” he asks, and - ah, there it is. Brain functions back online. Cogs whirring again: clearly Akira is luring Akechi out so that he can be arrested and properly punished for his numerous crimes - it’s a trick, a trap, and he should stay here, in the Velvet Room, where it’s safe. Let his hair bleach pale under the blue light and become an attendant himself.

But: he knows Akira, now, and Akira knows him, and he saw how badly Akira wanted him to wait for him.

But: if it is all fake, and he’s walking into a net to tangle and imprison him, how is that any worse than his cell here? Any worse than what he knows he deserves?

He wants, now. He can admit it to himself - he wants: freedom, and a place to belong, and for that place to be beside this boy. But he’s known all along what he deserves for the things he’s done. So: even if this is a false hope, he thinks, maybe he doesn’t mind. He has a chance to stand beside a boy that he likes, for a little while, at least.

The thought process takes seconds: he comes to the conclusion by the time Akira replies.

“Missing, presumed dead,” he says, and reaches into his bag. Rummages a little, pulls out a worn-looking grey hoodie. “But still pretty recognisable, I think. But no one noticed me in this when I was supposed to be dead, so you should be fine too.”

His fingers feel numb; joints stiff as he reaches out to take it, and the cliche happens. Their fingers brush and it's like warmth and life and light bloom through him from that tiny point of contact.

And he shakes.

And he can’t grip the hoodie so it falls to the floor but that doesn't matter, because they've both taken a step to close the gap between them and Akechi understands what Lavenza had needed from him.

They don't kiss - Goro isn't sure if he's ever going to feel like he's allowed to kiss Akira ever again - but there are arms tight around his shoulders and a hand in his hair: his own hands finally work only to cling tight to the back of Akira’s jacket. His face buries into Akira’s shoulder. His lungs catch and rattle with one long, slow breath as he does his very best to breathe and count. It usually works to fend off tears. Usually he doesn't have a warm, living body holding him close and not letting go and slowly, slowly stroking his hair.

The tears come, hot and sharp, thickening his throat till he can’t do anything but gasp in short, harsh breaths and sob them out in messy, snotty patterns, muffled by soft jacket fabric.

Akira says nothing, and just holds him, and lets him cry. Morgana winds around his ankles.

He isn't alone, or unwanted.

Even if it's just for a moment, he's grateful for that moment, and he savours it before letting go. Akira squeezes, a hesitation before he follows suit. Goro lets himself believe it's because he doesn't want to let go of him.

For once, it doesn't matter if he's right or not.

“Better?” Morgana asks, in Akira’s place. His glasses reflect blue light, hiding his eyes, leaving his expression deceptively neutral. Goro nods and sniffs for lack of tissues, aware he must look a state and wishing he could care more about that.

He tugs the hoodie on. It’s a little too big around the shoulders and short at the wrists, but it smells like coffee and curry and boysweat, and some tiny part of him dares to suggest the combination might be something he could call ‘home’. He pushes away the thought and the twisting anxiety in the pit of his stomach, and gathers himself enough that he’s able to catch Morgana with no difficulty when he leaps up into Goro’s arms.

Akira looks a little sheepish with the bag already held open for a cat who is far too busy rubbing his head against Goros chin and far too comfortable in Goro’s arms to return to his usual spot. Goro doesn’t mind carrying him. He’s warm and breathing and Goro wants to keep it that way, and feels like he can, and that in itself is new and strange.

He can’t hold Akira’s hand, like this, but that's okay; he doesn't think he deserves to, now.

He never deserved to, he supposes, but he took plenty more than he deserved anyway.

The stairs aren't high; there aren’t too many of them. But with each step his legs feel heavier. Like something’s holding him back. Weighing him down. He slows, hesitant at the last moment.

Akira turns to look at him, and the sunlight haloes around black curls. His expression is silhouetted, but Goro thinks he understands.

Another step, forced but wanting, if not for himself, then for him - and daylight stings at him, painful to eyes that have adjusted to nothing but a dim blue glow - but it’s good, and with the slight breeze it's like dumping a bucket of ice water on his head - and whatever clings to his ankles, or shoulders, or heart, loosens just enough for him to leave.

It’s not gone. He’s under no illusions that it’ll ever fully leave him, the way Yaldabaoth and his personae have fallen away over time and under the light of day. There are indelible marks on him, in places he can’t reach, and - well, even if his insight is broken and he can’t analyse himself beyond surface-level for too long, he knows full well there are messy, ugly parts of him that won’t be going away.

Morgana purrs in his arms, and Akira smiles at him as the door they just stepped out of dissolves to a pale blueish glow hung in the air. They’re in a side street in Shibuya. It seems so mundane and so alive, and the buzz of people-noise is dizzying, and Akira doesn’t seem to care about the bad parts of him right now.

He should, Goro thinks. But the ground below his feet is solid concrete, and the air is stiff and cold and held out by a hoodie that smells of safety, and the sky is bright, and the world is loud and real and there’s a cat in his arms and a boy smiling at him and believing in him and trusting him despite everything, and - and -

Maybe right now he can pretend he’s worth that. Just for a little while.

On the way back to Yongen-jaya, to Leblanc, to - a place Akira thinks Goro can belong - the movement of the train jostles them against each other. Neither moves away once they settle. Akira wants to be close to him. Goro hopes Morgana doesn’t notice how he trembles. They make small talk about the city and the people they see. Nothing heavy or important or big. Just noise.

He anticipates at least quiet antagonism from the Sakuras, but Futaba isn’t in Leblanc when they arrive, and Sojiro’s expression softens in a way Akechi knows means he doesn’t hate him, even if he doesn’t understand how; lets him know he was expected, if nothing else. He doesn’t speak to them, though, only jerks his head in the direction of the stairs as he rummages for a treat for the cat now winding around his ankles.

Akira takes his free hand to lead him up to the attic, like he hasn’t been there plenty of times before. There’s blankets laid out on the sofa - he was expected - and a plastic bag full of snacks sat in the centre of the table.

“The others left that,” Akira explains. There’s a low roughness to his voice. His smile isn’t as dazzling as it was in that moment in the sun; barely an upturn at the corners of his mouth. Almost a secret, if you don’t know him well enough to recognise it. But it’s there, softening the edges of the world so Goro can exist in it. “We agreed to give you time to settle, but they wanted to - make sure you knew that it’s okay, that you’re here. Some of them -” he bites the inside of his cheek, a subtle movement that Goro fancies only he might recognise. “Might take a while to be ready to see you.”

“That’s ok,” Goro manages. Akira doesn’t usually talk so much. Nervousness, perhaps, or, if he’s very lucky, excitement. He doesn’t mind, either way. It’s a good voice to listen to, and talking is proving more difficult than anticipated, now that they’re back in the attic he so cruelly mocked, now that it’s the safest place he’s ever been.

“We can have curry for dinner, downstairs,” Akira continues, tipping the bag and knocking a variety of foodstuffs out across the table. “But I thought that should wait until Leblanc is closed, and - I thought you might need to eat, too, so you can have as much as you want. Or not. I can get you drinks, too, if you need them.”

There’s something strained about the level of hospitality - like he’s begging under his words for Goro to stay;  to not go away again. Not that Goro can. Where would he go? Even if he wanted to leave he’s here at least for the night, if nothing else. Even if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to.

A part of him does - wants to get out and hide away - wants to rot - wants to run into the unwelcoming arms of his father. Sickening instincts telling him that Akira will slit his throat in his sleep. Telling him he’ll do something worse to Akira if he stays.

He’s still holding Goro’s hand, though, and so the answer is simple.

Akira lets go a few times throughout the night, because it would be impossible not to, but each time his fingers find their way back, winding between Goro’s, a silent ‘please stay’ as he blows on his first coffee in months - sweeter and milkier than he asks for, and perfect - to cool it; a ‘don’t go’ as they curl up forehead to forehead to sleep with Morgana between them.

Goro can only squeeze their hands together in response, hoping it’s enough reassurance.

If he’s wanted - and he realises as he drifts off into true sleep, finally, that for once, he does feel wanted, not just useful or necessary - then there’s no place he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe ill write more for this premise at some point but im in no rush  
> some little snapshots of things after? idk


	2. together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i might but then i guess it just happened huh. this ones tiny though

Akira wakes up in the middle of the night gasping for breath.

It’s dead on midnight, in fact, but he doesn’t know that.

Nor does Goro, woken as Akira sits bolt upright, eyes wide, sweat dripping down his brow, hands grasping for guns and knives that just aren’t there, and then - reaching up -

And Goro knows that reach, has clawed at his own face in search of a mask that doesn’t exist anymore, and takes hold of Akira’s wrists.

His head whips round to look at Goro, eyes coming into focus as he sees who it is and remembers where and when he is, at least enough to clutch at Goro’s shoulders, instead; to press shaking hands against his face as if to be sure he’s real.

Goro understands: he takes deep, visible breaths. Tugs Akira’s hand down to his chest, to prove without doubt that his heart still beats, and that, at last, seems to ground him enough that he starts to calm down.

He doesn’t ask what dream set so much fear into Akira that it woke him - doesn’t allow himself to assume it was about him. Just rests their foreheads together and breathes slow and deep until both their pulses are settled and even.

Akira’s hands are still a little shaky, but there’s soft affection in his eyes, and in the curve of his mouth, as his fingers trace the shape of Goro’s jaw.

Goro is a little shaky, too.

Akira kisses him, and Goro knows it might be half-awake panic-fueled adrenaline that pushes him to do it, but he doesn’t mind. Even if it’s a one time thing. He allows them both this one moment.

He can’t tell Akira that he loves him, just yet, but he thinks the message gets across when he laces their fingers together and leads them both to lie back down. Clever thieves fingers card through his hair in silent adoration as they drift back off to sleep.

The next time they wake up, it’s to spring sunshine and a noisy cat.


	3. different and the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is only tagged with akeshu but theres probably gonna be like, hints of other ships? they wont be the focus though so im not gonna clog up those tags, especially since they might just be implications at this point  
> anyway this isnt proofread have fun

The scissors are cold against his cheekbone. The blunt outside slides smoothly over his skin, comes so close to catching on the shell of his ear but steady hands ever-so-carefully - s n i p - slow and careful, a straight line, and soft brown waves fall onto Akechi’s shoulder, and off onto the wooden floor of the attic..

He’s sat too-rigid in a chair in the middle of the room, anxiety gnawing away at his chest, and trying not to rely too hard on the familiar sight of Akira reclining on the sofa with a book in one hand, the other mindlessly petting the cat curled on his chest. But his eyes keep flicking across for that reassurance that he’s safe. If there was anything to worry about, Akira wouldn’t be nearly so relaxed, and so Akechi has no reason to be so tense.

And, he reminds himself sternly, Kitagawa has the least reason of all of them to seek revenge upon him, and the best eye for aesthetics, so it makes perfect sense that he would be the one to cut Akechi’s hair.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admits conversationally, about one-quarter of the way round Akechi’s head.

Akechi wants to scream, a little bit, but settles for clenching his fists, nails digging into his palm once, twice.

“It’s very different from painting,” Yusuke continues, tilting Akechi’s head with his empty hand. He’s talking to himself, more than to either of the other boys in the room, and Akechi is grateful for that; he’s barely been able to get more than a few words out since the artist arrived this afternoon. Embarrassing, considering the ease with which he’s able to speak with both Akira and Morgana. But, he supposes - that detective’s mask shattered quite thoroughly. It will take some time to put it back together in a way that fits him now. Yusuke is still talking. “More like sculpting? Although not using any traditional tools or materials, and with little room for experimentation, since the goal is blending in, rather than standing out, or being recognised…”

“Maybe you should ask the girls if they’ll let you experiment with them,” Akira comments dryly, without looking up from his book.

Yusuke hums in agreement, scissors pulling close to Akechi’s nape.

“Ah,” he hesitates, and for a moment, Akechi thinks his appearance must have been irrevocably fucked. But: “That should be ‘experiment on’, rather than ‘with’, shouldn’t it? Else I’ll make a fool of myself.”

Morgana loses it, tumbling off Akira’s chest and onto the floor cackling raucously. Akira’s shoulders are shaking with laughter, too. Akechi, for his part, thinks of how far Yusuke has come to be considering the double-meaning of phrases like that even while absorbed into something he clearly counts as a kind of art.

He’s sure they’ve all grown, in the past year, in all sorts of directions. Become fuller people through their interactions.

Even him?

Yusuke’s scissors come around to the other side, and he can’t think of any ways he’s stepped forward. Only regressed, barely able to speak to anyone, barely able to leave the attic even after Leblanc has closed for the night, barely able to -

“Oh, Akechi-kun, please keep your head still, you almost lost an ear.”

Yusuke is calm, so he wasn’t in any real danger; it’s just friendly concern.

Oh - he supposes, he has that. People who give a shit about him as a person, rather than as a tool. His mind argues that he betrayed them, that he can’t possibly count them as friends, but.

But Yusuke is right here, fingers catching under Akechi’s jaw to keep both sides of his haircut even, going out of his way to do a favour that might help keep him safe, and there’s nothing accusatory or hurt in his expression when their eyes meet. In fact - his mouth crooks in a tiny smile. In fact - there’s something understanding there that relaxes Akechi’s shoulders, just a little.

It doesn’t take a detective to figure out why Kitagawa Yusuke might think he understands Akechi Goro. The desperate reliance on manipulative father figure who used their talents: the parallels are astounding, if unsurprising.

He doesn’t want to be understood. It’s a knee-jerk internal response, and a selfish one. He wants only Akira to understand him, can’t bear to even think of anyone else peering into him and seeing any hint of the grime that lies under the surface.

But that’s - not growth.

Hair falls from in front of his eyes onto his lap. Thoughtful fingers pull strands apart and twist them together.

He supposes he ought to consider how much effort he needs to put in, too. That first step, out of the Velvet Room, into the sunlight, was just that. Only a first step.

He can’t expect anyone else to take the rest of the journey for him.

Yusuke steps back, frames Akechi’s face with his fingers, frowns, gets back to work with his scissors.

Snip, snip.

Akechi has to let himself grow, right? Can’t just stay hiding in the attic, that’s no different from staying in his cell.

Snip, snip.

Yusuke steps back again as the gears of Akechi’s logic start moving again for the first time in a while.

It’s a little overwhelming to consider - opening up, pushing himself forward, moving on and living a life - but - his eyes move to the constant comfort of Akira, who’s sat up, now, looking at him; from this angle Akechi can’t quite make out his expression. But - if he doesn’t live, and try, won’t that be letting down the one person who never forgot or lost faith?

“What do you think?” Yusuke is asking Akira. “Should I take it shorter, or is this enough?”

Akira is just staring. It’s a little intense, so Akechi at least has the decency to blush; the boy looks taken aback by his new appearance, and it’s impossible to tell if that’s a good thing.

“That bad?” Akechi jokes, standing up and brushing himself down a little. There’s a circle of chestnut-coloured softness around his seat. He hadn’t known how much hair he had, but now that it’s gone, his head feels so much lighter. Maybe that’s just a little of the dense fog from inside clearing, though.

“Well, I think you look like a work of art.” Yusuke’s tone is serious as ever, and it’s a high compliment from him; Akechi’s blush deepens.

“Yeah,” Akira manages. He sounds almost breathless. Akechi doesn’t dare let himself consider it’s because of him: it’s Yusuke’s hard work and talent that have done - whatever has been done to his hair that’s left Akira so awestruck.

Morgana _mrows_ noisily, rolls his eyes.

“Get a mirror, then, Joker,” he insists, batting at Akira’s wrists with a paw. He lurches upright and stumbles downstairs. The cat follows, presumably to make sure that he doesn’t forget what he’s after, in such a state.

And Akechi is left alone in dull dusty sunlight with the Fox.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Yusuke beats him to it.

“Thank you,” he says, and Akechi’s confusion must show on his face, because Yusuke smiles. “For letting me do this today. I know - I mean, I can imagine it must be hard, adjusting.”

He’s trying to relate and sympathise, and it takes so much effort not to shut that out - but Yusuke is trying. It’s only fair, isn’t it, that he put in equal effort, here?

Akechi runs a hand through newly-cropped hair, letting a long exhale sigh out. The answer is one that might have dripped falsely from his mouth once, but now he lets it turn over in his mind, it’s not untrue.

“It’s hard,” he admits. “I’m sure it must be far harder for you to trust me, though. You’ve no reason to, after all I-”

Yusuke reaches out, clasps one of Akechi’s hands in both of his own.

“After all you went through, there is no room in me for distrust,” he explains, fervent and forceful, the way he talks about art, and aesthetics.

Goro believes him. There’s something cruel and sticky rising in his throat, though - he can’t have this conversation, actually; not yet, not now. Yusuke is touching the bare skin of his filthy hands, and he can’t move or speak, because if he does he’ll break and spill black ink all over this bright-painted canvas.

But Akira comes back at this moment, carrying the mirror unhooked from the bathroom wall, and Yusuke lets go, and conversation goes back to something easy - complimenting the work Yusuke has done on his haircut. It frames his face far more neatly than Akechi can remember it ever having done. Short, but not too short; the naturally fluffy texture taking bangs that could have looked much like Niijima’s and flicking them every which way instead. It shouldn’t look as good as it does; he shouldn’t look this good with his face so visible. His chest is tight, but - it’s not bad.

He’s still recognisably himself, but perhaps at a glance, he’d be harder to notice in a crowd, which was the initial purpose of this in the first place.

His hand reaches up to the back of his neck, exposed to the air for the first time in who knew how long.

“Are you going to miss it?” Yusuke asks.

“I will,” Akira responds immediately, before Akechi can even think about his own answer. “I’ll mourn the rare ponytail that exposed that pale stretch of neck.”

He’s being Joker-dramatic, over-the-top and silly to distract Goro from any potential regrets. It’s working; he and Yusuke both elbow the ex-thief in the side, and he doubles over in mock agony.

They’re just teenage boys.

They spend the rest of the day watching bad movies, figuring out plot twists as early as possible, idly drawing across several pages of sketchbook, and Akechi almost relaxes. It’s easier than he’d normally anticipate, especially with Akira’s hand seemingly magnetised to the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck.

When Yusuke leaves for the night, he looks at him and opens his mouth as if to say something, but thinks better of it, only offering a hand to shake. Akechi has gloves on by now - shakes it gladly, and warmly, with no panic or delusions clawing their ways out of his chest.

They close up the shop, and Akira lets Goro help clean up - lets him feel useful - and, mid-dishes, puts an arm around his waist and kisses his hairline.


	4. miles from comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theres other things i should be working on probably but this happened instead and thats just fine. akeshu will always be here
> 
> god its literally been a year since i last wrote any of this. thats fine

The keys to Akechi’s apartment were in his briefcase, or his jacket, or otherwise lost to the Metaverse or the Velvet Room, so Akira picks the lock to let them in.

It takes him bare seconds, but it’s mesmerising watching his fingers twist so deftly and easily.

And the door swings open, as it always has, to his neat little 1DK.

It’s untouched.

He hadn’t realised how afraid he was, that someone could have so easily come and emptied the place out, gone through all of the files and folders that remain stacked exactly as they were when he left, against the wall and on the table, found - too much evidence that can’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.

They were already in the wrong hands, he supposes.

Niijima - the younger one, Queen - is with them today for exactly this reason. She slips her shoes off in the genkan, like this is a proper friendly visit and not just a stop to pick up any possessions he might still want and to make sure anything Sae might need for her case gets to her as soon as possible.

Akira steps inside so easily, too, following suit, if a little more slowly, head twisting like he’s trying to take in as much of this place as he can in one go. That makes about as much sense to Akechi as Niijima taking off her shoes; it’s not like there’s much to see. He’d never seen much point in decorating, so the walls are plain off-white and unadorned; what furniture there is is simple and practical.

There’s still a bowl and a spoon in the sink, rinsed off after he’d tried to force down some breakfast that day.

There might still be rice in the rice cooker. He tries not to think about the state it might be in after this long.

“We should close the door before anyone notices we’re here,” Akira suggests, and Goro realises he’s still lingering in the threshold, feet having refused to take that step inside.

It’s not that hard, to go in. He closes the door behind him, and leaves the ratty, borrowed sneakers on.

“I’ll, uh,” he gestures at his bedroom door even as he makes his way across the room towards it. Niijima nods. She’s not afraid to make eye contact with him - she greeted him with a firm handshake when they’d met up, earlier. She hasn’t smiled at him once, which is a relief. Businesslike. Easy for him to handle and react to.

Akira opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, moves like he wants to follow Akechi.

Goro closes his bedroom door behind him, so he can’t.

It’s not because it’s a mess. It is a mess, but that doesn’t matter.

It’s just -

He just isn’t -

It’s not a good place. He can’t let Akira touch it, can’t get him dirty like that. He’s already touched him so much; they’ve been skin-to-skin so often at this point, and Akira knows - knows why he shouldn’t, and does it anyway, which means he’ll just come in here like it’s nothing, like there isn’t rot in the very air of this space.

Akechi wants to keep him from that, at least. If Akira insists on touching something as corrosive as him, he’ll have to adjust to it - is adjusting to it - but he can at least keep him away from this.

Already the feeling of the room is pressing down on his head, on his shoulders. Like a hand clamped around tongs clamped around burning.

Will the attic feel like this too, if he sleeps there enough?

It doesn’t yet, he supposes. It’s - for all the shit he said about it it, for all he disparaged and insulted - Leblanc’s attic is the safest place he’s ever known, besides the Velvet Room, and Akira himself. Perhaps Akira’s presence negates his own.

Perhaps, a quiet thought comes, muffled and pushed down immediately - perhaps, if he let Akira in here, he would fix this place.

Something like an air purifier?

He can’t help but laugh at himself. He’s putting the other boy on a pedestal and he knows it. It’s not good for either of them. Kurusu Akira is just a boy, he reminds himself forcefully. He’s done miraculous and impossible and wonderful things, but he’s still just a teenage boy, just like Akechi Goro, who has done terrible things.

Like fall in love with an impossible and miraculous and wonderful boy.

He laughs at that, too. He knows how foolish and awful that is.

He knows, too, that Akira still smiles at him, and holds his hand, and presses soft kisses against him, even though he knows Akechi inside-out. It’s hard to believe even when it’s happening.

There’s a knock at his bedroom door, and he realises he’s just been stood there, looking at the mess instead of sorting through it, and that his hands are in his hair and pulling, and that he doesn’t know how much time has passed.

“We’re going to turn on the TV for a bit of noise,” Akira’s voice comes muffled through the door before he can respond to the knock. “Is that okay?”

“That’s--” his voice is hoarse, his throat stuck. He tries again. “That’s fine. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Akira says, and doesn’t ask anything else that would be a lot harder to answer right now, and Goro lets his shoulders untense a little.

Whatever they put on is noisy and has the dramatic sound of something aimed at children, which means he won’t have to possibly face the news when he comes out of the room.

(that’s been tough, in Leblanc, the few times he’s come downstairs during the day while the television has been on. the news is still pretty focused on a few specific things right now. he hadn’t thought he’d been so obvious that Akira had noticed, but Akira pays attention to him, after all.)

Okay. Packing clothes and personal effects. He opens his wardrobe.

The thing is.

The thing is, the Detective Prince had a carefully cultivated aesthetic. Harmless and well-presented, light colours only. Approachable and youthful.

He can’t be that person anymore.

If nothing else because he can’t be recognised, can’t let people know he’s that person, at least not just yet. Not until the trial is done. For now, Akechi Goro is dead. And the Crow left behind doesn’t look like that anymore.

There’s some t-shirts and underwear that are fine - branded sportswear, things that don’t matter, and things that he needs more than one of, that he can't just borrow from Akira. He folds them into an old backpack. Shoes, he can take, too. Not his school uniform, or the sweatervests, nothing like that.

His tie - he shouldn’t. It slides through his fingers, and he thinks about what the stripes look like. He shouldn’t still be attached to that. He shouldn’t still like the feeling it brings him.

He packs it.

The to-read pile on his nightstand is mostly things he’d wanted to say he’d read, now that he looks at it. Things that would be useful to bring up in conversation, whether to make himself look better or just to have something to talk about for a bit. There’s only a few books worth taking. Mystery novels, of all things - but he does want to read them. That interest, at least, wasn’t entirely a lie.

That realisation comes as a strange relief. There are still grains of truth within him.

The box that lives under his bed goes straight into a bag. He’s not sure he’ll have any use for anything in there any time soon, but he can live in hope, at least. Besides that, and the basic makeup kit he’d mostly given up on in favour of letting television crews take care of his face, there’s not much else worth keeping, really. It’s strange, how little physical things matter, when it comes down to it.

He’s taking out the false bottom of his sock drawer to get to his emergency money when there’s another knock at the bedroom door.

Niijima doesn’t wait, or concern herself with his need to keep this space his own; she just walks right in. Behind her, sat on the sofa and going through a stack of papers that are obviously useless at the barest glance, Akira leans to peer into the room, too.

“Ake-” she begins, and he holds up a hand, shakes his head. He can’t say it - his lips press together hard. He can’t be that person with that name, right now. Akechi Goro is dead, and he’s stood here still alive.

She regards him for a moment. Perhaps there’s something in how his hand shakes, or the way his eyes are wide and afraid.

“Crow,” she amends.

He’s not sure what it was, that let her understand. Maybe any of the thieves would get it, if they were here. Maybe it’s just her; maybe there are times when she can’t stand to be Niijima and can only bear to hear Queen. He doesn’t presume to understand her thought process, and doesn’t dare try, even if he knows he could figure it out with a little effort. It’s not for him to know.

“I thought you’d want to go through this yourself,” she says, and she’s holding up his briefcase.

He’d taken that with him into the Metaverse, onto that ship, hadn’t he? But a lot more impossible things have happened than his briefcase making its way back home after he’d died. She’s holding it out to him, and he almost reaches out.

And then he remembers what’s in there.

Nausea rises in his throat.

“You can,” he manages, before he pushes past her, stumbling as fast as he can to the bathroom to vomit.

Akira’s right behind him. Even as he sits back, away from the toilet as it flushes, he’s there, holding a glass of water out.

He takes it in one hand, the other absently scratching along the collar of his borrowed t-shirt.

“It’s okay,” Akira reassures him, taking that hand in his own. “You’re okay.”

It’s not, and he’s not, but hearing Akira say it does help, a bit. Crow shakes his head anyway.

“It is,” Akira insists, cupping Crow’s face in his other hand, letting his fingers dip into his hairline. “I promise, you’re alright.”

His hands are well-worked; the feel of them warm and solid against Crow’s own clammy skin is easy to lean into. He’s solid, and real, and he doesn’t mind touching someone as gross as Crow is. It’s more believable than his words, but that’s no surprise; he’s always shown his feelings through actions. Even just the little things.

Akira leans in, and Crow only realises that he’s going to kiss him barely in time to cover his mouth with his hand.

There’s loss and confusion in those grey eyes, now, in the tilt of those elegant eyebrows - he’s hurt him, by denying him that.

They haven’t kissed much, since Crow came back. That is: they’ve kissed once, after Akira woke from a nightmare about a week ago, and since then Akira has kissed Crow’s head, and hands, and cheeks. And Crow has felt himself shake with guilt and shame, because it’s what he wants, and he’s selfishly allowing it, even though Akira deserves - well, at least someone who hasn’t tried to kill him. Preferably not a murderer at all. It’s not like he doesn’t have options; there are people who would line up for the opportunity.

But Akira keeps kissing him and touching him and curling up in the same bed as him every night. And he’s selfish, and he can’t turn him away when it’s what he wants more than anything. Even admitting that it’s what he wants is selfish.

But now he’s denied that, and he’s hurt Akira.

The one thing he really, really can’t let happen.

“I just threw up,” he explains, as fast as he can, grabbing clumsily at Akira’s hand, trying to get that truth across in the way their fingers clasp together. “Let me at least finish this water, first.”

Clarity breaks across Akira’s expression like a stormcloud passing, rejection replaced with a smile. He leans forward again, but this time just to bump their foreheads together.

“Goro,” he murmurs, and it’s not so bad to hear, from him. Maybe it’s just the way he says it, like it’s something precious and important. Like he’s important. Sometimes, the way Akira looks at him makes him feel like he’s one of the treasures Joker has stolen.

If he were a more sentimental person, he might let himself think that Joker has certainly worked his usual magic on him. As it is, he doesn’t dare even think it in more explicit terms than that.

“I don’t mind,” Akira says, and laughs, soft and low, at the face Goro makes in response.

“I mind,” he replies primly, and it comes easy now, being a person who is allowed to exist. “If you threw up I’d make sure you brushed your teeth and rinsed your mouth out properly before I came anywhere near it.”

Something in Akira’s eyes lights up; he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold in his excitement.

“But you would, after I’d done that?”

Goro flushes pink. He can feel the heat rising in his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. Meeting those hopeful eyes is suddenly impossible.

“I’d want to,” he admits. It’s all he can manage, for now - he would want to, whether or not he would feel like he could.

He glances back up. Akira is beaming.

He did that.

Niijima clears her throat from the bathroom doorway. The briefcase hangs from her hand by her side.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice is quiet and a bit wobbly. She’s still meeting his eyes, but only barely. He doesn’t really understand what she’s sorry for. “I - my sister can make sure it’s disposed of safely and legally, with no traces back to you.”

Akira’s hand tightens in Goro’s, and he knows he’s realised what was in there.

“Thank you.” He stands, not letting go of Akira’s hand, and manages to smile at Niijima. “I’m sorry for - such a display. I know that that sort of behaviour can be difficult to know how to respond to, and you’ve been very considerate in face of my--”

“Oh, shut up,” Makoto says, and she’s smiling, mouth twisting up in amusement. then, serious again: “You’re allowed to react to your trauma however you need. Just remember you have a whole support system here for you as well as Joker, alright? We all help each other. That’s how it works, so if you’re going to be one of us, you’ll have to get used to it, no matter how much you think you ought to be able to cope on your own.”

She’s speaking from experience, he knows. And she’s not making it about herself in doing so, which takes care and thought.

He’s not sure he’s ever heard anyone refer to his crimes as trauma before, but he can’t bring himself to argue. Especially not with a woman who he’s seen punch shadows out of existence and who seems pretty determined to make sure he follows through on his decision to live properly, instead of just clinging to Akira as a safe ideal.

She’s right, after all.

“Thank you,” Goro says, instead. “I’ll do my best.”

Makoto nods imperiously.

“You will.”

Akira shakes with laughter, shoulder bumping against Goro’s. Makoto’s mouth purses, holding in her own giggles. It’s infectious; his own mouth curls into a smile despite himself.

“Are you done in your bedroom or do you need to shut yourself up in there some more?” She’s actually asking, despite the phrasing.

“I’m done, I think.” Even if he’s not, the thought of shutting himself back in there has absolutely no appeal any more.

“Then you get to choose between helping me figure out what’s useful, or sitting on the couch pretending to look at files but actually just watching Featherman with him.”

She’s just making fun of Akira, and he really ought to help, but - he glances at the television.

“Oh, this is the series where Pink Featherman is a lesbian,” he realises out loud.

“What.” Makoto’s dismissive tone is lost to genuine interest.

“Not the character,” he explains as they all sort of just gravitate to the couch. “The actress. It’s kept quiet, because her wife owns a global corporation, but it’s one of the worst-kept secrets in showbusiness, really.”

“Is that so?” Makoto’s voice is soft and thoughtful as she sits down, half-heartedly picking up a folder to flick through. She really doesn’t need to, even if she’s barely looking at it in favour of the sentai that so suddenly has her interest. Goro can tell her what they’ll need with barely any effort. It’s all in one pile - he’s long since prepared for this, after all.

But there’s something nice about settling down to sit, with Akira between them, to watch a children’s tv show together, so he doesn’t mention that just yet.

“I had the pleasure of meeting her, once, but only briefly,” he says instead. “We didn’t have much time to talk, but she was very kind to me.”

It’s true, actually. She had been kind. There had been something familiar about her, too, something he couldn’t quite name or place, but he had found himself comfortable with her almost immediately - in a way that he only felt again once he met the Phantom Thieves, actually. That’s something he can’t explain, but it’s okay. Maybe just LGBT solidarity? It’s not important, he decides.

What is important is how studiously Makoto’s eyes are lit up as she watches the Feathermen flip about and shout catchphrases, and the way Akira’s head is already lolling a little bit as he lets himself get comfy sat between his friends. What’s important is that Goro has manipulated a situation again, but this time with the sole purpose of helping people relax and stop worrying about things. It’s a nice feeling.

They barely finish an episode before Akira falls asleep, head falling back, glasses slipping down his nose. Whether he’s been up too late recently, or just feeling safe where he is, it’s impossible to tell for sure, but - he’s smiling, and he’s still holding tight to Goro’s hand.

Things are okay. Things will be okay. Makoto glances over at him, and she smiles, too, and there’s no pity or bitterness in it.

He wonders if it’s enough, just to make this one boy happy.

It’s a start, at least, he decides, lifting their linked hands to press his lips against Akira’s knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tsuchinoko real voice] yukamitsu real


End file.
